Two Sides of the Same Story
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: Tag to, "The Scarecrow," where Oswald invites Jim to the opening of his club. Reading between the lines, and the shared looks. Eyes speak volumes.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am making no profit, monetary or otherwise, through the writing of this.

 **A/N:** Tag to the episode, "The Scarecrow," aired February 9th, 2015. All but the last two lines of dialogue are taken from that episode.

* * *

His face lights up when he sees him, and Jim's heart sinks. _Why me?_ he thinks, and, with a sense of foreboding, he goes to speak with Cobblepot.

It seems innocuous, an invitation to the opening of Oswald's nightclub, but Jim knows what this means, what it could lead to, and he refuses, wants to end this ruse of a friendship right here, right now, before it gets out of control. He doesn't need, doesn't want, Cobblepot's brand of help to get what he needs. Doesn't condone threats to people's family and friends to get answers, or leads on cases.

He doesn't need a grown man's hero worship of him either just because he'd done something decent when he probably should've killed the man.

Seeing Cobblepot, here at the station, where he works, makes him feel sick to his stomach with guilt and remorse, and it makes him uneasy, because of the way Cobblepot looks at him. Green eyes glittering in the dim light of the police station, practically dancing with delight, and over what? Jim? It's enough to make his stomach twist and make his head spin.

"I don't want your help. It was a mistake to ask. I don't want you coming here," Jim says, stating it calmly and clearly, though inside his blood's boiling, and he's not entirely sure whether it's from anger, or something else that he can't quite name.

"You shouldn't treat me this way, Jim," Cobblepot says, green eyes no longer dancing in love or friendship, or whatever the hell it is that Jim was reading in them earlier. They're flat, and Jim can read the hurt in them, the coldness of a killer as well. It's almost breathtaking, the switch.

"One day soon, you'll need my help," Cobblepot says, sure as a gypsy with a crystal ball, and Jim wonders if the man can't scry the future, maybe in his eyes.

"You'll come to me," Cobblepot says, leaning close, certainty ringing clear in his voice, eyes dancing once again, like there's something the man knows that Jim doesn't. It's unsettling, but Jim doesn't have time for this. Doesn't have time for dancing eyes that can scry the future in his own.

"And walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light," Cobblepot says, eyes searching Jim's for something, a tentative smile fighting its way to the surface, and Jim doesn't want to encourage this. Doesn't want to encourage anything with this man who's offering him more than just an invite to a party, more than a deal with the devil.

"Good luck with your police work," Cobblepot says, voice sincere, "and please, reconsider my invitation, it won't be the same without you." Cobblepot presses the invitation into Jim's hand, and it almost feels like it's burning.

Jim watches Cobblepot hobble off, crumples the invitation in his hand, ignores the sharp edges that dig into his palm as he tosses it into the garbage and walks away. He's got work to do, and, regardless of how things are normally run in Gotham, he doesn't need help from the likes of Cobblepot.

Not again.

It had been a mistake the first time. He'd been desperate, and Jim feels sick about it, about the implications of Delaware's pathetic begging that his family be left alone, how he'd knelt in front of him as though Jim was some kind of lord. Jim's stomach clenches in pain, and anger at himself at Cobblepot at the fact that he almost took him up on his offer again.

Harvey calls Cobblepot Jim's pal. Doesn't think anything of going to him for help, if only because it can get them answers where other means can't, and quicker than regular, run-of-the-mill, hands tied by following proper protocol, can. Jim feels like he's sinking into another level of hell for just considering going to the other man for help.

* * *

Oswald hates that Jim doesn't show, that he has to face Maroni, and his goons, on his own. Even if Jim hadn't done anything other than show up and give him one of those nods, maybe a tight smile that almost, but doesn't quite reach his eyes, it would have been enough. Would have given Oswald the courage that he needs to continue his work in the midst of all of these sharks.

They're all after blood, his blood, and that's what makes Jim different, what makes Oswald want to have the man by his side on a night like this. On other nights. Jim isn't after his blood, he actually saved his life when it was worth nothing to him, to anyone. He's Oswald's only true friend, even if he doesn't know, or understand it, or how important a thing like that is.

Jim's only after what's right, and Oswald can give him that. He knows he can, it's just that Jim doesn't see that yet. He'll show him, though.

"I'm gonna make him see it," Oswald says the words aloud, plan firmly fixed in his mind.

"Jim's going to see just how invaluable my help, and my friendship, can be." Oswald smiles, and takes a sip of the wine that Maroni poured for him, already seeing the man's death in the depths of it.

It's fact. Same as Fish and Falcone's downfalls are fact. It's all set in stone. All he needs is time, and Jim by his side. Everything will fall into place, just the way it should.

"Jim will see," Oswald says, certain. He laughs, and takes a sip of his wine, plotting friendship and mayhem in equal measure.


End file.
